


Second Wind

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 11:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18364982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: In the new world, Mòrag calls upon Nia and Dromarch for help.





	Second Wind

**Author's Note:**

> i literally don't remember if i've ever written a post-game fic before lmao
> 
> anyway i'll never not be upset that Dromarch got severely shafted in the game so here's this.

“It’s an invitation, my Lady.”

“I _know_ what it is, but…” She thought there’d been a mutual agreement that they’d all take care of their own business first, before getting together for drinks and such. For herself, she isn’t quite sure what to do, but wandering the new land with Dromarch had simply been enough. No more running from Indolines. No more worrying where they’d get their next meal. No more hiding.

This liberation leaves her as uneasy as it does dizzy with relief. She turns the paper over, but there’s no writing on the other side. Maybe she should’ve pressed that messenger for more information before he ran off, but a part of her doubts he would’ve had anything useful to say.

Dromarch cranes his neck up to read it again.

“ _I formally request your presence in Alba Cavanich. Thank you in advance._ ” He blinks at her. “It sounds as though Lady Mòrag needs our assistance with some matter.”

“I don’t wanna go out of obligation,” Nia says, resisting the urge to crumple up the letter. “If she wants our help, she can just _say_ it instead of sending us this cryptic nonsense. What, she needs us for help, or she’s having a fancy get-together and needs some friendly Gormotti rep to show how much the Empire’s changed?”

Nothing… changed. No, things _are_ changing, but change takes time. Disputing the new situation with territory borders and Mor Ardain’s uncomfortably close proximity to Uraya had given rise to new complications, but she believes in that young Emperor to settle things without the need for fighting.

Besides, she’s pretty sure half of Temperantia had sunken beneath the ocean, along with Judicium and its Titan weapons. And nobody wants to start a fight when they’re still rebuilding their cities after Malos’s attack.

“Did our journey together with them mean nothing?” Dromarch asks, patient with Nia’s baseless ire.

“I should be asking that to her, if she thinks this kinda vague invitation is fine.”

“There could be a purpose in that.”

A part of her knows, but. It’s still _stupid._ Mòrag could’ve come find them herself, it’s not like they’re going too far off what’s been charted so far or leaving Fonsett for extended periods at a time. Leftheria’s just a couple days’ travel away from Mor Ardain on foot, now.

Or Mòrag could be so tied up with whatever’s happening that she simply doesn’t have the time to leave. And she didn’t want to risk the message being intercepted and read by anyone else.

It could be important.

It could be urgent.

It could be something worth checking out.

She folds up the paper and tucks it in her pocket, resting a hand on Dromarch’s head with a low sigh. “Yeah, I’ve been wanting to see how Mor Ardain’s been faring, anyway. Their Titan basically faceplanted into the dirt, didn’t it?”

 

* * *

 

Alba Cavanich had been in a state of emergency for the first few days.

With the Titan’s ungraceful entrance and landing into Elysium, both cities upon its shoulders were badly shaken (further damaging what had already been damaged after the assault from the Artifices), and they couldn’t even use their steam-powered technology when the Titan’s body cooled with its quiet death. But they were surrounded by greenery and by the sea, and so the resilient survivors of Mor Ardain patched up their wounds and set to work.

Centuries of reliance on the Titan’s heat for energy set them back some, but they’ll manage. That’s what Mòrag and her brother truly believe.

Nia arrives three days after Mòrag had sent the messenger to Fonsett. She rides on Dromarch through the battered streets of the capital, picking her way through bustling crowds to find the bridge leading to Hardhaigh Palace entirely collapsed. People and soldiers and small Titans are hard at work at the repairs, but it’s clearly difficult with the shifted topography.

In the distance, further away than it was before, the Palace is half-sunken into the soft earth and surrounded by splintered wood. Completely intact, and it even looks like the electricity is running, but sunken as if a giant had stepped on it. Frankly, it’s a miracle most of Alba Cavanich is even upright.

Just a few hours’ walk away from here would be Uraya, nestled into the landmass. Fonsa Myma is probably in better shape, since they at least had some shelter thanks to their Titan’s exterior.

“Nia, Dromarch,” Mòrag is there to greet them at the collapsed bridge, looking exactly the same as she did the last time they saw each other. Brighid is trailing along close to her side, glancing at her Driver with transparent concern. “Thank you, for—“

“Thank me after whatever it is you need us to do,” Nia waves her off with a hand, sitting tall upon Dromarch’s back.

“It is good to see you two again,” Dromarch bows his head.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to skip the smalltalk,” Brighid says. “This is… something we’d like to resolve as quickly as possible.”

“Yeah, so, what is it? Need us to heal some people? Give a hand with construction efforts? Talk to the Gormotti council?”

Mòrag and Brighid glance at each other. “Perhaps it would be better to explain while we walk there. The Palace’s dungeon cells are currently underground, but still functional. We’ll have to take a long route since the bridge is still undergoing repairs.”

“The Palace dungeons…?” Nia’s grip on Dromarch’s fur tightens, but he obligingly walks alongside Mòrag.

“Yes. We have some… unique guests, staying with us.”

“Prisoners, you mean.”

Mòrag runs a hand over her face, and she almost looks _uncomfortable_ for a split second. “I would prefer to avoid using that word, for diplomacy’s sake.”

“Ahh, I get it,” Nia shrugs, wrinkling her nose. “Lemme guess— you’ve got some Gormotti hooligans put down there, and you need me to try talkin’ some sense into ‘em. I bet you guys have your hands completely full with reconstruction efforts in both Alba Cavanich and Chilsain. I get it, really— so you don’t have the time to deal with some thugs yourselves. Is that really it? That’s what you asked me here for?”

Close…” Mòrag gives her an odd look that she isn’t quite sure how to interpret. “But no. If only it were as simple as that.”

“Just because we’re in Elysium doesn’t mean the world is magically fixed,” Brighid says, something bitter at the edge of her voice. “Ha! Imagine that, a fairy tale land where no one would fight. Putting rabid dogs into a prettier cage won’t make them any less inclined to tear out each other’s throats.”

“But this prettier cage has resources. Land. _Food_ ,” Nia says. “You don’t have any reason to fight with Uraya anymore!”

“Indeed. Our differences are well on their way to being settled,” Mòrag takes Brighid’s hand as they make their way down a steep drop of crumbled boulders. This must have been part of Mor Ardain’s shoulder, now collapsed. Weeds are already creeping across most of it, as the Titan is being claimed by the landmass’s flora. “His Majesty and Queen Raqura have been convening in Gormott daily, along with King Eulogimenos. But this is a problem that is not a part of our nations’ former conflict.”

Something occurs to Nia, and she unintentionally pulls on Dromarch’s fur hard enough that he grumbles in discomfort. “… The other rulers don’t know about whoever you’re keeping in your dungeons, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Well, that’s just great! A fantastic way of showing that Mor Ardain means to sign a treaty! Keeping secrets from the other countries not even a month into Elysium! Are you guys willingly daft, or is this some bullheaded Ardainian thing?!”

“My Lady…” Dromarch says, apprehensive, but Mòrag and Brighid don’t seem bothered by her harsh words.

Hardhaigh Palace appears even larger and grand and downright frightening from this level, half-sunken but still impressively large. They’re walking along the edge of what almost appears to be a crater from the impact of when it had crashed into the earth.

“I’ll cut to the chase, then,” Mòrag doesn’t break her stride, looking straight ahead. “They’re _Flesh Eaters._ ”

Nia would stop if she were walking, but Dromarch continues onward without breaking his pace.

“… Eh?”

Oh, now it makes sense.

“They won’t listen to us,” Brighid explains. “They see us as nothing more than the enemy. But we thought if they could talk to another… one of their kind, they might be more agreeable.”

 _Now it makes sense._ Nia’s dimly aware of her breath quickening. She presses her forehead against the back of Dromarch’s head, his thick fur tickling her face.

There… were more of them. More of them that Jin didn’t save. More that Torna was never aware of.

They could have been…

 _No_ , it’s better that they weren’t, Nia firmly tells herself. Because Jin and Malos were leading them all on a march to death, leaving bodies in their wake. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t. She feels sick just thinking about it.

“Will you speak to them?” Mòrag asks, her voice gentle. “I understand if you’d rather not, Nia.”

“—I will,” Nia blurts out, face still buried against Dromarch’s fur. “But… why’d you imprison them? What’d they do?”

“It turns out they were hiding somewhere along the Titan’s legs for quite some time,” Mòrag says. “They emerged not long after we began repairs to the capital.”

“And then?”

“They tried to kill me.”

Nia’s stomach lurches. She forces herself to look up at Mòrag, and isn’t sure if she should feel relieved or unsettled when she sees no emotion on her face, as if she’d said something as simple as a statement about the weather.

Flesh Eaters! Other Flesh Eaters! They’d been in Mor Ardain all along, and the first thing they do in Elysium is try to murder Mòrag? But, it almost makes perfect sense, if they were like _her._ Like how she’d been when Jin found her, and took her to the Monoceros.

Except these ones didn’t have that opportunity to decide what was wrong and right for themselves. To take immediate action like that, so suddenly…

“ _Why?_ ”

“I was hoping you’d be able to get those answers in my stead,” Mòrag says with a dry, wry smile. They’re coming near the back of Hardhaigh Palace now; the ground is even more unsteady here, but a small path had been cleared, leading to a small door. Mòrag produces a key from her pocket. The steel creaks when she opens it. It’s dimly lit inside by sconces put up along the walls, and Nia notes with some vague amusement that some of the flames are blue. They must’ve shut the electricity down on this level. Makes sense, if they’re running on backups and the rest of the Palace-slash-fortress needs that energy until they can set up an alternative for the long run.

This interior reminds her of the battleship, almost. It seems like ages ago that she’d been Mòrag’s prisoner. And here she is now, on a… diplomatic mission, of sorts, to help out a friend who’d been attacked.

Funny, how things turn out.

“Their presumed leader is being kept here.” They come to a stop before a heavily barricaded cell. Two soldiers are stationed there; they salute to Mòrag, and she nods to them. “Any recent developments?”

“Only more slews of profanities, ma’am!”

“… I see.”

“Thank you for your diligence,” Brighid says. “You two are dismissed until further notice. Why don’t you go grab lunch?”

“Yes, ma’am! Thank you, ma’am’s!”

The soldiers scurry off and it’s just the four of them once more. Nia climbs off Dromarch’s back and gingerly places a hand against the door. It’s cold.

She isn’t sure what she expected, or is expecting. To Dromarch, she gives him a small frown, and he slowly blinks in understanding. He’ll stay out here, to allow her to proceed alone.

Mòrag starts, “If you’d rather not—“

Nia shakes her head. “Just open the door, will you?”

Wordlessly, with only a nod, she does.

The door closes behind her. Nia takes a deep breath, struggling to feel Dromarch’s ether signature through the thick barrier of steel. He’s there. Mòrag and Brighid are there, too.

And there, sitting on the floor in the middle of the cell, is a young woman with a tainted Core Crystal bared upon her chest.

 

* * *

 

_All seemed lost; death was inevitable. She began to work herself into resignation just to make things easier, because desperately fighting until the very end would only be excruciating agony. Why bother? Why struggle? Why prolong the inevitable with despair and sorrow?_

_Then the door creaked open and there stood her savior, red dripping down the length of that slender blade._

_He offered his hand._

_Nia took it._

 

* * *

 

“Could there be more of them?” Dromarch asks. He’s focused on the door, ears twitching as he tries to pick out any noise of conversation within.

“It’s hard to say,” Brighid says. “The three we captured were _very_ reluctant to answer our questions.”

“The history of Flesh Eaters is a long, obscured tale of treachery,” Mòrag says. “Now we at least understand much of that was Indol’s doing. With the collapse of the Praetorium, and the shifting state of affairs in Elysium for all Alrestians… we have the means to change things. Not only for Nia, but for any others who were forced into hiding.”

“Surely they must understand that you mean no harm, Lady Mòrag.”

“I fear the Empire— no, the _world_ had done its damage already. They won’t be so quick to trust us.”

“Let’s put it this way,” Brighid says. “Supposing Mor Ardain found you and Nia before Indol or Jin ever did. Do you really think Nia would have gladly come along to be detained without a fuss? Or that the Empire would show mercy, for that matter? Frankly, I don’t blame these Flesh Eaters for lashing out as they did. They must have been on the run from Indol for a long time.”

Dromarch prowls back and forth in front of the door, quiet. He had never thought— educated himself to the best of his abilities with whatever books he could sneak aside to read, yes, but profound thoughts and attention were reserved for keeping Nia safe. Why was the world so cruel? Why must it have been that way?

He didn’t care. All that mattered was ensuring Nia’s safety. When Jin offered a safe haven, Dromarch gladly went along without question. When Nia turned their back on them after Pyra’s awakening, Dromarch still went along.

“What would you have done, in her place? In any of their places?” Brighid asks.

“… I imagine it would be a cold, lonely existence.”

They go quiet. It sounds like they're shouting in there, but only that. No noises of battle or any spike in ether… and then the muffled voices fade to silence. Dromarch squeezes his eyes shut and leans heavily against the door. He would never truly understand the plight of that young woman speaking to Nia. But _Nia_ could.

As Blades, they have that commonality. But he remembers something Nia had told him once, when they were on the run—  _you don't have to stay with me. You can go elsewhere, for your own sake_. And do what? He is a Blade. He cannot  _be_ without Nia. 

“My shortcomings are becoming more and more apparent by the second,” he dryly chuckles.

“We must all seize our own destinies,” Mòrag vaguely recites, as if recalling something she’d heard before. There’s a distant look in her eyes for a moment, then she snaps back to attention and turns to Brighid. Their gaze lingers, noticeably. Dromarch pretends to be none the wiser.

The aftermath of a world built upon conflict and war wouldn’t be resolved so quickly.

That shouting had resumed, though it seems less vitriolic and more… impassioned, now. He can practically envision it in his mind, Nia yelling and making wild gestures and flinging her sharp insults as she does with careful precision and great intent. She’ll be fine. She can bring about _change._

 

* * *

 

“She would’ve fit right in with Torna,” Nia says, stretching her entire body from the tip of her ears to the soles of her feet with a great big yawn. No longer do apprehension and dark clouds shadow her face. She looks back to that Flesh Eater, who now speaks quietly to Mòrag and Brighid with her head bowed.

Dromarch has to wonder if that woman would have been better or worse off being found by Jin.

Nia hesitates. “It wouldn’t have taken much to convince her, I think.”

“You do have a way with words, my Lady. No need to be humble.”

She shakes her head, ears pressed flat down. “I could’ve been like her.”

“But you are not.”

She gives him an odd look, crouching down to squat on the floor. The Flesh Eater glances at her way now and then, as she stumbles over her words to Mòrag and Brighid.

“Hey, Dromarch.”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Supposing… I didn’t turn my back on Jin and the others, that night Pyra was awakened. And I didn’t mind that they were gonna kill the rest of the Maelstrom's crew. What would you’ve done?”

He knows the answer, it’s ready on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. He forces himself to think. Dromarch curls up beside Nia, and she takes the invitation to flop against the warmth of his belly.

“I go where you go, my Lady.”

“What a cheap cop-out answer.”

“I-Is that so?”

“That’s so!” She grips a handful of his fur. “You could at least talk me out of it! Smack some sense into me!”

“Ah, I suppose…”

“But you’re not that kinda Blade, are you, Dromarch?” Nia sighs, her grip loosening. Her voice trembles. “Y’know… you really do remind me of Da, in that way.”

Unlike the likes of Brighid, or Pyra and Mythra, he’d never given much thought to his previous Driver. That Nia claimed to be his former Driver’s daughter was enough, and they had a preexisting bond that he imagined stood strong even without his memories. From the moment of his awakening, he knew what his purpose was.

Yearning for something he could never get back just seemed pointless, is all.

“I was thinking I may purchase a small plot of land in Fonsett, when we return,” he murmurs, lowering his chin to the ground between his paws. “For a garden. Flowers, and vegetables…”

Nia considers this. “You don’t have _thumbs_ , Dromarch.”

“Would you lend me your help, then?”

“You have to ask? It’s the least I could do.”

Mòrag, Brighid, and that tense woman are coming back over. The Flesh Eater offers a weak smile and Mòrag clears her throat. “Well, then. Shall we go speak to her companions, now?”

 

* * *

 

The sun is beginning to dip below that unfamiliar horizon of endless blue by the time they leave. Mòrag anticipates a mountain of paperwork with a burgeoning migraine, but she at least won’t have to worry about any more attempts on her life. Hopefully.

She’s fully prepared to face criticism for allowing the Flesh Eaters to walk free, anyway. They say their farewells to Mòrag and Brighid and head off in the opposite direction of the city, into the wild forests that haven’t yet been claimed by the Ardainians.

“We really should change the name for our people,” Nia says, striding ahead of the others. The three Flesh Eaters look to her as if she could shoulder a mountain upon her shoulders, _hope_ daring to find its way through their hatred and rage. “None of that cannibalistic nonsense.”

“What would you suggest?” Dromarch asks.

She thinks about it for a moment, hands folded behind her head as she walks. “Anything’s gotta be better than _Flesh Eater._ Don’t you think?”

The other three eagerly nod in agreement.

“But, first— you sorry lot are gonna be helping me find the others you’ve mentioned,” She stops, swiveling on her heels to face them. “ _No more hiding—_ we’ll drag ‘em out by their ankles kicking and screaming, if that’s what it takes!”

“Though, hopefully such drastic measures won’t be necessary,” Dromarch interjects.

“You think old man Minoth’s still around? Or d’you suppose his heart gave out when Uraya bellyflopped into Elysium?”

“M-My Lady.”

“Kidding! I’m sure he’s fine. Oi, you three ever met Minoth? Ah, but I guess you’d probably know him as Cole. No? Then we ought to pay him a visit.”

Dromarch slowly blinks and stops to allow Nia to climb up onto his back. Their new companions, battered by the years, breathe their relief to the sky. No more hiding. That’s right. No more. This new world can afford their voices to be heard.

“... Thanks, Dromarch,” Nia murmurs into his ear, hugging his neck. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, you know?”


End file.
